


Anything is possible in Paris (Expect the unexpected)

by okeydokey (LilMissNerdfighter)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hamish looks likes his father, Irene is SHERlocked, John has stopped panicking, M/M, Sherlock's past comes back to haunt him (still not a poltergeist)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMissNerdfighter/pseuds/okeydokey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns home from a case on rainy Monday, more bothered by his list of reasons why he loves John, than by memories of the time he spent 'dead'. In reality, both are equally important. </p><p> </p><p>The evening that Hamish becomes part of the Watson-Holmes family, from Sherlock's POV. Set immediately after Poltergeists (Not an experiment).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything is possible in Paris (Expect the unexpected)

_They are standing by the Eiffel Tower. It is a grey day, but it’s not raining, so they are sipping their coffee outside. She is a little too close, but Sherlock doesn’t push her away. Somehow, he is feeling and he hates it. He had spent so much time locking his emotions away, and yet here they way, ruining him as they always had. They are telling him that he had been alone for too long. Her hand slips into his, and he presses a kiss to her cheek. Paris is the city of romance, and anything is possible. Even dead men and women walking, it seemed._

_**_

_A pair of arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, a forehead resting against the back of his shoulder. He allowed himself a small smile, relaxing into the touch. This piece of his old life was all he had left, and even if she wasn’t the one Sherlock would have chosen, she was here and he wasn’t. So, he allowed her to pull him back to bed, and lost himself in her. After all, if he couldn’t have love, wasn’t this the closest thing?_

_**_

_It’s their last day together, but only Sherlock knows. When she awakes tomorrow, he will be long gone. He hates to leave her like this, yet he knows it’s the only way. He can’t let himself care for her any more than he already does. The Game is still on, and she will get hurt. He can’t allow himself to be responsible for anymore loved ones in danger. She tells him over dinner that it’s only the sex and that she will be taking off to London soon, where he cannot follow. Her body tells another story. He has become too good at reading her, the Woman’s cold façade is flawed. The way he supposes his is. He doesn’t tell her that they will be separated sooner than she fears. Prolong her dream for a little while. He allows himself one last kiss, one last touch, before disappearing into the night, leaving only a note reading:_

_Thank you for dinner. –SH_

_It starts to rain as he exits the hotel. He can imagine her waking the next morning, and to his surprise, he find she cares that she will hate him. It seems, despite his wishes, she has changed him. Anything is possible in Paris. Still, he keeps walking on, not allowing himself one final glance back at where she sleeps._

_**_

_He thinks of her sometimes. A red scarf in the shade of her blood red lipstick. The smell of her favourite perfume. The sound of that infuriating McFly song she insisted on playing over and over, just because she knew it irritated him. They spark brief snatches of memories, not enough to make him miss her, but enough to make him wonder what she is doing. He never does get another invitation for dinner. He carries on, tearing Moriarty’s web to shreds. He knows he could ruin her within moments, with the information he collects, but he doesn’t. A little bit of sentiment has grown, and he can’t bring himself to do it. He owes her nothing, yet he leaves her unscathed. She patched him up for a little while, when he had just been about to break. She was a plaster when he needed stitches. She is nothing compared to John, but she was a friend. She helped him. He helped her._

_He doesn’t hear from her for years, but once he returns back to John, he doesn’t particularly care anymore. He is home. She was interesting and for a while, he wanted her. But he needs John, he wants John now. So, he doesn’t mind when she doesn’t text him. He wonders what has become of her, but he doesn’t pick up the phone himself. This is London, not Paris._

It was a rainy Monday evening, and as Sherlock rode in the taxi, he ran through the case he had just solved in his head. Open and shut domestic. Nothing particularly unusual, and certainly not enough to keep him out so late. Afterwards though, he had stopped by the morgue to check out some body parts Molly had kept back for him (she had returned from her job in Oxford not long after he had come home). Naturally, he had lost track of time. John wouldn’t mind. He hardly ever did. Number 37 on the list of reasons why he loved John (he was compiling a list, so he could explain to anyone who asked why John was different to everyone else).

There is something different about Baker Street today, Sherlock decides as he unlocks the door. He catalogues the flakes of red nail varnish on the wallpaper, and a waft of expensive perfume. The final proof that something has gone horribly wrong is the sound of a child’s giggling coming from 221b.

Sherlock ran up the stairs, throwing open the door with enough force to knock a hole in the wall.

‘John-‘ He yelled, opening his mouth to explain that there was a child (approximately 18 months old, probably male) hiding in their flat and that they needed to vacate the premises immediately. However, his speech fell at the first hurdle, when he saw John waving a blue duvet around, as the intruder watched from atop a pile of cushions. As Sherlock had deduced, the child was, in fact, male and of about 18 months of age. Despite this, he was definitely not unexpected, it seemed. John looked completely comfortable chattering away to the little boy, as if the toddler belonged there.

‘Hi, Sherlock.’ John called, covering a makeshift mattress with the duvet, tucking it in with hospital corners.  Sherlock shot him an inquiring look (who is this child? What is he doing here?) and was surprised to see John’s eyes narrow (how do you not know?). ‘This is Hamish. Until we can figure something out, he’s going to be living with us.’

‘Why?’ hissed Sherlock. Children were not something he particularly enjoyed dealing with. Give him Anderson any day. Children were snotty, annoying and stupid, no matter how much their oblivious parents insisted otherwise. As if to answer his question, Hamish jumped to his feet, and marched over to Sherlock, holding out his hand. Sherlock glared at it suspiciously. What did this child want?

‘Hello, Father.’ Hamish said earnestly, looking back over his shoulder at John for reassurance, when Sherlock didn’t respond. Seeing that John was unfazed by Sherlock’s reaction, Hamish continued to hold out his hand, smiling hesitantly. John mouthed at Sherlock to shake the boy’s (his son’s?) hand, and Sherlock did so, going into autopilot mode.

‘Hello, Hamish.’ Hamish? Where had that name come from? Sherlock met John’s eyes, and he remembered. John _Hamish_ Watson. Hamish wasn’t John’s son though. Hamish had Sherlock’s black curls and smile. He didn’t have John’s eyes, or broad shoulders. There was an elegance about him, that John, quite frankly, didn’t have. So, Hamish was his. Hamish was his son. Around eighteen months old. That would mean that he was conceived 27 months approximately beforehand. During the time where he was playing dead.

A slideshow of women’s smiles flashed before him. None of whom he had slept with. He had always retrieved the information before it had come to that. 27 months. No. Not 27 months ago, _25._ Sherlock stopped on the image of the only woman who had ever beaten him, the Eiffel Tower shining in the background. Irene Adler, Paris, 25 months prior. 12 days of mild distraction before he left her in an overpriced hotel. Apparently with little more than he had intended. Hamish Adler. Hamish Holmes. Their son.

‘Oh.’ Sherlock breathed. The whole realisation had taken less than five seconds, and wasn’t nearly long enough to register as significant in Hamish’s mind. ‘How is your mother?’ Irene wouldn’t be Mummy, or Mum, she would be Mother. Just as he was Father. He was a Father. Well, for once, he hadn’t seen that development approaching.

‘Good.’ Hamish grinned, before flapping his arms in a way which small children seemed to, indicating that they wished to embrace someone, but didn’t quite know how to enquire about it. Sherlock sighed, before bending down to allow the child- his son to wrap his arms around him. ‘Hello, Father.’ He repeated, as if getting used to the feeling of it on his tongue. Sherlock patted Hamish’s back awkwardly, feeling John’s eyes on him. He glanced upwards, to see John smiling at the pair.

John had said that Hamish would be living with them. Which meant that Irene had fled again, to some exotic destination, where a child would be an inconvenience. Having Hamish here wasn’t exactly ideal either. However, John seemed to _like_ this inconvenience! He had been preparing a bed for Hamish earlier (which was no doubt only temporary, until he cleared out his old room). Did that mean that John was prepared to take Hamish in as his own?

John was still beaming as Sherlock shifted so that his arms were around his son, rather than pinned against his sides. Did hugs always last this long? Still it gave Sherlock time to think the situation over. Maybe he could get used to this, if it made John happy. That was a recent change. Seven months ago, he would never consider _compromising_ for _anyone_. But this was John. John had always been the exception.

Sherlock sighed, allowing Hamish to relax against him. If Hamish was his son, perhaps that meant he would be more intelligent than other children his age? Less sticky, annoying and generally frustrating. Irene was clever, and he was a genius, so their IQ combined would hopefully have produced a ‘bright’ child. Maybe Hamish wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Sherlock caught John’s eye again, and that reminded him that he wasn’t alone. Not anymore. Did this ready acceptance of Sherlock’s 16 month old son mean that he didn’t mind? Would he help him raise Hamish, if it came to that? Would he treat him as though he were his too? Hamish Watson-Holmes. That sounded a lot more reasonable than Hamish Holmes or Hamish Adler. Yes, he could deal with this, if John helped him.

Who knows, perhaps having his son around could be interesting. Only time would tell.


End file.
